


the half-hearted light of day

by Shamelessly_Radiant



Category: Romeo And Juliet - Shakespeare, Rómeó és Júlia (Színház)
Genre: And I have a lot of feelings about them, And these people grew up in Verona, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, As this is Tybalt, Because they all deserve better, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Hungarian musical canon, Implied/Referenced Incest, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Multi, Some Psychological Trauma most probably, The title makes no sense and I will not apologise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-12
Updated: 2019-04-12
Packaged: 2020-01-12 05:07:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18439649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shamelessly_Radiant/pseuds/Shamelessly_Radiant
Summary: “You love her,” Romeo states, “and she loves you.” And Tybalt, Tybalt— jerks, in shock, in pain, still sitting against the wall as he was when Romeo came and sat beside him, stiff as a board, shoulders drawn up and tense.“You love her,” he says and in his voice is none of the condemnation that there should be should he truly know so he must mean it in the dutiful, familial sense but Romeo’s eyes are dark and knowing and unwavering against his and Tybalt doesn’t know, doesn’t know.





	the half-hearted light of day

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Carmarthen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carmarthen/gifts).



> This is situated in a kind of fix-it where Romeo, Juliet/Julia, Tybalt and the others escaped Verona and nobody died, but everyone still has their scars. Inspired by all of Carmarthen's works honeslty, and by the hungarian cast of Romeo & Juliet, mostly by Szabó P. Szilveszter's amazing, troubled Tybalt.
> 
> ~~This is also my first time writing slash and I'm mixing it up with a very different, kind of anxious brittle style so I'm nervous & positive/constructive feedback would be lovely~~

“You love her,” Romeo states, “and she loves you.” And Tybalt, Tybalt— jerks, in shock, in pain, still sitting against the wall as he was when Romeo came and sat beside him, stiff as a board, shoulders drawn up and tense.

“You love her,” Romeo says and in his voice is none of the condemnation that there should be should he _truly_ know so he must mean it in the dutiful, familial sense but Romeo’s eyes are dark and knowing and unwavering against his and Tybalt doesn’t know, doesn’t _know._

_“Nugh, nugh,”_ he mutters, he shakes, he winces. It is dark, the lone candle burning against the far end of the corridor and this brings some solace, the shadows shielding his face, still, still he cannot stop himself from this half-hearted, unwilling confession, and Romeo, he is— too close, too _present_.

He presses tighter against Tybalt’s side. “She’s your cousin, but you _love_ her.” And is there an emphasis on his words or is Tybalt imagining it, because Romeo, he, well, he cannot possibly know because if he does, if he _does_ he should be judging, condemning, shocked, not this easy weight against him and Tybalt, Tybalt jumps up, shattering, shaking, as a caged animal looking _desperately_ for a way out he paces the corridor, and there must be madness in his gaze, or Romeo must know him better than he should, or both, because he is suddenly there, pressing Tybalt against the wall, his weight on his and Tybalt’s wrists locked tight and he must have sensed the beginning of a fit coming and his weight is _there_ , present and Tybalt is _strong_ but Romeo has the leverage and Tybalt doesn’t truly, doesn’t truly want his warmth and his grounding presence _gone_ —

Tybalt is shaking, Tybalt is saying _no_ over and over again and Romeo is shushing him. “She loves you,” he repeats. “I— she, _we,_ we want you to stay.” And Tybalt is stiff, tense and unable to escape against this onslaught and Tybalt thinks _I should have killed him when I had the chance_ but this thought is fleeting, too fleeting to be meant but still, but still Romeo doesn’t know what he is saying, and Romeo shouldn’t be so gentle, so, _so tender_ when he brushes some dark locks away from Tybalt’s face and Tybalt, Tybalt should not be allowing this touch but all his free wrist does is fall uselessly against his side, not even reaching for the blade that is there, always there, even if there is no true need for it anymore, and suddenly he is tired, and sliding down and Romeo is following, their legs tangled, their faces close and Romeo is, Romeo is reaching for his hose where he is, where Tybalt is half-hard and Tybalt, Tybalt tries to jerk away but Romeo is holding him in his hand and still making those gentle noises and Tybalt doesn’t have the energy for anything but to half-heartedly move his hips and burry his face in the wall as much as he can, and let Romeo comfort him in this way _he_ can.

“Tybalt,” Romeo says, later, after, when Tybalt is tucked away again and slumped against the wall, and Romeo repeats that he, _they_ know and that they want him to stay and he cannot mean that, can he, but how could he not when his hand is still wet from Tybalt’s come and when he is still _there_ and Tybalt is sobbing, ugly wrecking tears and lungs and stomach aching and Romeo is holding him to his chest and he doesn’t have the energy to fight anymore, to hate, to _hate;_ himself and Romeo and the Montagues and he’s so, so _tired—_

Seconds, minutes, _hours_ later, the candle burnt out, Tybalt’s tears dry but the tracks still on his face, Romeo still tangled up with him, holding him, stroking his hair gently, Julia finds them and Tybalt, Tybalt tries to muster the energy to, to _leave_ but Romeo’s grip is steady in its gentleness, and Julia is, _Julia is_ sitting down next to them, close, too close and yet not close enough, and grasping his hand.


End file.
